Still
by victorcharlie
Summary: Still in France, still uncaring, still evil, still acting tough, still emotionless, still a boy; yet lives still connected.


**A/N:** For those who've read my deleted story, The Line He Never Crossed, consider this a conglomerate of said story and newly acquired style of writing (hopefully). Also, if the dialogue's italicized when Anne-Sophie or René are talking it denotes them speaking in French.

**07-24-2010: **I've been busy – with school, of course. And though I can't say that I'm back for any permanent time, I can say that (hopefully, with my mind slightly refreshed with new ideas) I am here for the (remaining – I'm horrible, I know) summer. So if anyone's read what was originally posted a good half year ago, I've tweaked, rewrote, and added in some new material. Thus, I hope you enjoy and… blah.

**Disclaimer: **This is only here for this beginning chapter. All rights and ownership belong to Bisco Hatori © 2003. Any characters that are known to be hers are, and characters that aren't are mine.

* * *

**Still**

_: In France_

Wordlessly, the envelope was set on the table, forming a tangible wall between them.

"No."

The smooth, white porcelain cup contrasted with the aged hand of its holder. "And why is that?"

Anne-Sophie's flaxen brows contorted at the overbearing tone of her guest's voice. "I refuse to give you René – regardless of the amount of money you throw at me; it might work on the hundreds of others, but not me," she let out a strained cough before taking a sip of tea, "and I was under the assumption that all forms of contact with me were cut."

"All forms of contact are cut – with my son that is. The ties you have with me, however, are carefully connected and watched over with scrutiny."

"I would've never guessed you'd be keeping tabs on me," she scoffed. "More tea?"

"Anne-Sophie-san," the cup eased back down onto its saucer without a clink, "I suppose I have not made myself clear – please rethink your poor choice and what an opportunity you are rejecting. I am offering to have you transferred to a colleague's much better hospital where all of your medical expenses would be paid for. In fact, I am willing to dismiss this little dilemma as long as you hand over the child to me."

Not bothering to set her cup down with equal eloquence, Anne-Sophie ignored the dull, stabbing pain in her chest as she stood up and glared down at the kimono-clad woman. "If for a second you think I would ever rethink the choice of giving René," her native French accent slipping into the Japanese conversation, "my son, to someone like you—"

"I am his grandmother. This by default, regardless of how tainted his blood is, makes him a Suoh." The fabric of the kimono rustled as she stood eyelevel to the younger woman. "And if for a second, you think I do not know what it feels like to have her son taken away then you are sorely mistaken." A flash of despair and contempt through the elderly woman's gray eyes stressed her pains of aging.

"Then if the feeling is mutual, please finish your tea and leave." Anne-Sophie side-stepped to her door and opened it, pulling her shawl closer to her body to block the incoming winter breeze.

Settling back down into the tattered seat, the aged woman reached again for the porcelain cup and sipped the remaining ochre liquid. The warm tea slid down her throat and undulated comfortably in her stomach. Turning her head, she eyed the younger woman with disdain. How could such a meager thing like her displace her son's entire mind-set? Looking over the woman, she possessed characteristics that hardly set her apart from the average population. It boggled the older woman to think that a Suoh would be living in such conditions. Placing the fragile cup back onto the saucer with a resounding clank, she rose to her feet. Brushing out the invisible wrinkles in her kimono, the woman slowly made her way towards to the open door.

The slow shuffle of the woman's feet against the threadbare carpet amplified the tension between the two. When the thong of her wooden sandal was wedged snuggly in the crevice of her toes, she made her exit and descent down to her waiting limo.

A hefty-sized man stood next to the limo, opening the door with the approach of the woman. "Your flight has been confirmed."

Slipping into the black interior, the woman stopped. "The next time you need anything, you come to me." The patronizing smirk in her voice was undeniable. "And the tea was barely adequate." Completing her previous intention, the man shut the door firmly and raced to the driver's seat; the limo started and it was off.

Retreating into the warm house, Anne-Sophie slid back onto the couch and the door quietly shut as if not to disturb her.

Resting her forehead on her clammy palms, Anne-Sophie reached over for unopened envelope on the table. It was the letter that should've reached the hands of who it was addressed to. She passed the letter around her pale hands, flipping it back and forth as if it would suddenly change shape or disappear. She let out a breathe she knew she had been holding. Staring at her uncharacteristic penmanship, she laughed softly but bitterly. The only letter she had sent to René's father five years ago. The only way she could've explained her sudden disappearance. The only way she could've told him that her heart was forever his. The only way she could've said that they have a son. Yet all of these wishes were rendered impossible because of that woman. Dry sobs racked through her frail body and she gripped powerlessly at the crumpled letter, babbling incoherently the words she wished to express most to the father of their child. Tears dripped down her face, running through the rouge she hurriedly dabbed over her pale cheeks in arrival to her previous guest, creating streaks of watered, red tears.

That woman had won.

_"Mama – are you awake? What's for breakfast?"_ She grabbed her handkerchief from her pocket to wipe away the dirty streaks of red. The sleepy slur of words shoved her current state of despair to the back of her mind and replaced it instead with the state of her number one priority. _"Mama where are you?"_

She turned to see her son rush hurriedly down the creaking stairs. _"I'm here René. Good morning."_ She smiled down at her precious son. _"What would you like for breakfast?"_

René rubbed gingerly at his sleep-laden eyes, _"I would like…crêpes with eggs!"_ The sun bounced playfully off his golden crown of waves. _"And hot chocolate too!"_

_"Coming right up,"_ she laid her shawl on the arm of the couch, _"now go brush your teeth and get ready for school."_

René darted back up the stairs as Anne-Sophie entered their quaint kitchen, stuffing the crumpled letter into her pocket along with her tear-stained handkerchief.

—

_: 13 years later_

—

_"Good morning mama!"_ René shouted, throwing his bag at his shoes and running into the adjacent kitchen. Dropping two slices of bread into the toaster, he grabbed the carton of milk from the refrigerator and downed the creamy-colored liquid, running a hand through his damp hair.

Looking down at his watch and over at his toast, he decided that it would be better to forgo the toast and just eat it soft, yanking the cord out of the socket. Reaching two fingers delicately into the jammed toaster, he carefully picked out the slices, biting them securely and slipped a corner of wax-covered cheese into his shirt pocket before grabbing an adjacent lime thermos.

Sliding the thermos into his bag, himself into his windbreaker, and his bag over his shoulder, he waved goodbye to the small picture frame on the table before leaving his small apartment. _"Goodbye mama."_

Stomping down five floors of stairs, René finally reached the dull but familiar lobby. The yellow paint was slinking off the walls and to the checkered ground; a ring of hand-carved wooden chairs surrounded the lobby's coffee table, where said coffee sat in a strainer, along with a small bowl of sugar cubes that sat on top of a stack of gossip magazines, accompanied by a portly pot of creamer; behind the chairs an outdated green television cricked its antennas out in hopes of catching frequencies; a clear vase stood on the receptionist's desk, empty.

Making a sharp turn, René approached the station and unhooked his slender bicycle before mounting it and peddling his way over to the coffee. Pulling the thermos out of his bag, he greeted the landlord's wife from over his shoulder. _"Good morning Béatrice!"_

The stout woman seated behind the receptionist's desk turned around at the sound of his voice. _"Good morning to you too, René! Did you eat a good breakfast?"_

_"I just did,"_ he replied sheepishly, involuntarily brushing the crumbs off his mouth, _"on the way down."_

_"It isn't healthy for a boy your age to be biking around all day on an empty stomach."_ She made a noise of dissatisfaction. _"One day René, I'm going to wake you up at your doorstep with a proper breakfast."_

_"But what would Pascal think?"_ he grinned over his shoulder, settling back onto his bicycle, sending her a wink.

She blushed heavily and shook her finger. _"Go to work already – you're going to be late. And bring me back some flowers for the lobby!"_

Chuckling loudly, he biked quickly through the light morning traffic; greeting familiar faces until arriving at the steps of an adorably large flower shop smack dab in the middle of popular bakery and equally busy bookstore. The bright font of the shop's name curled gently around a bouquet of flowers, La Fleur, as it was so ironically named.

Pulling his bicycle up to the metal post adjacent to the shop, he took a thick chain from his bag and strung it around the bicycle and post twice.

Sauntering into the shop, the unquestionable fragrance of fresh flowers assaulted René's nose and the small tinkering of a bell echoed off the walls of the airy shop. Surveying the new assortments of flowers, he made his way to the back of the shop where a head of red could just barely be made out of the field of color.

Sneaking up onto the redhead, who chanted the shop's routine speech: _"Welcome to La Fleur! Where flowers are always fresh and never wilting."_ A small grin on her face mirrored René's.

_"Good morning Aimée. You smell wonderful today_." He said, sifting his way through her glossy mane of auburn making it to her pale neck.

A soft gasp escaped the short girl as René's arms snaked their way around her equally small waist. _"Not here René, you're here for work so I expect you to do some hard labor for me."_

_"I can show you what hard labor looks like_…" he trailed off, pulling at the strings that held the orange apron together. A tinkle echoed throughout the shop.

_"René, that just now is what we call a costumer – someone who contributes to my salary, and if it weren't for me, yours as well. If you don't let me go, I'm going to make you regret it."_ Her warning was ignored and resulted in a hard jab to the hip, leaving no lasting pain._ "Why do you have to be so tall?"_

Grinning down at her, he kissed the top of her head. _"A hundred and ninety centees and counting."_

Pushing away from him, Aimée pointed to the front of the shop where a silhouette could be seen examining the a similar orange apron from the wall, she shoved it into René's hands before subsequently shoving him out. _"Now." _

Pouting, he slipped the atrocious thing over his head and tied a sloppy bow behind his back before turning his attention to his new female costumer, who currently lingered around the bouquet of hollyhocks.

Observing people was never something of difficulty for René. He could always tell what mood they were in. Tight shoulders showed either anger or stress, however, when accompanied with knit eyebrows that always meant anger; hunched shoulders, tightly clasped hands, downcast eyes, and a titled smirk probably meant a lie was just spoken; crossed fingers at the crotch area usually meant vulnerability, and when sitting down a figure of oppression must be near; a tensed jaw meant stress and tiredness; tapping feet proved one's patience to be wearing thin, but in women if the waited for is a man, anger is usually to be followed, but if the waited for in a woman, an plausible excuse must be said if one is to be pardoned. The list of observations went on, from facial expressions to clothes to what food they happen to be holding. And René tended to observe correctly.

Brushing his bangs out of his eyes, he smirked to himself before putting on his best smile. _"My name is René. Do you see anything you particularly like?" _

—

Straightening his belt, he slipped back on his shoes and windbreaker, and tightened the strap on his bag. Squinting at the mirror with the lack of light, he could see the sheen of sweat on his forehead emphasized by the dying neon sign across from the room's window advertising loose women and promptly wiped it away with the back of his hand.

_"René…?"_ The tired voice broke out from under the loose duvet, complemented by naked shoulders.

A soft groan inevitably broke out. He somehow always ended up picking the clingy ones. _"Yes?"_

_"Are you not going to stay?"_

Biting at the inside of his mouth, René walked over to the resting figure and placed a light peck on her forehead. _"I'm sorry but I have other things to attend to."_ He ruffled her dyed hair before walking out of the room grabbing the bundle of flowers lying on the chair, not offering to pay for the room.

Stalking down the dingy hall to the elevator, René resisted the urge to bite his nail and instead chewed on his tongue. Tapping the elevator button repeatedly, he gave up on the machine and retied his shoelace before heading down the dimly lit stairs.

After two flights of stairs, the sheen of sweat on his forehead had returned and he nursed a throbbing hip that was rammed into the wall after being mistaken for an exit. Muttering a string of curses under his breathe, he was happily surprised to find that his bicycle was still in its spot after being hurriedly parked and not chained.

Mounting the slender body of metal, he placed the bundle of flowers into the back basket before easing into slow, methodical peddles. Glancing down at his watch the time was unseen but undoubtedly known for the lack of bodies on the street told him all that he needed to know. The wind flirted with his blond locks as his feet pushed faster at the peddles of his bicycle and the stars slowly flew by his head, the meaty smells of pies floated through the air and into his nostrils. Soon the pies were replaced by car exhaust fumes, the stars were replaced by lights, and the lack of bodies was replaced by people.

Slowly approaching the apartment building, a soft sigh of pleasure escaped his mouth as the air conditioned lobby blew cool wind towards his entry. The green television fizzled; the sugar cubes were left uncovered; and the coffee leaked onto the floor. Too tired to even comprehend locking his bicycle, René dismounted it before rolling it over to the station, not even bothering to slide it into its proper slot. Slouching over to the desk, a small LCD clock reprimanded him for staying out past hours with flashing red numbers. Disregarding the numbers, he laid the bundle of flowers on the lobby's counter, though somewhere in the back of his head he knew he should've put them into the vase, sliding a single flower out before making his way up the multiple flights of stairs.

Laughing inwardly at the paltry number of stairs he walked down back at the hotel, René climbed up the last stair before cursing the suddenly mile-long hallway to his front door. The lowered light flickered with the onslaught of ruthless moths; the carpet sunk under his shoes, which brought to his attention his untied shoelace; the relatively large flower twirled in his fingers; he could hear snores and silence from every room but the unmistakable noises of gyrating hips and creaking springs from 508, which just so happened to be neighboring 510. Pulling out his key, the endearingly sarcastic face of the brown bear attached to his key seemed to jeer sardonically at him as the moans of pleasure that he experienced only an hour ago came back to haunt him.

Flicking on the light to his apartment, he slid his shoes off and placed them neatly the way they were that morning; he did the same with his windbreaker and bag.

Walking over to the squat coffee table that balanced a swarm of miscellaneous items, René looked over to the picture frame. Smiling brightly back at him with her eyes of violet, his mother was the original mold to his carbon copy self.

_"I know you like dahlias mama,"_ he whispered, placing the flower down in front of the picture, _"let's just hope Béatrice does too."_ Grinning painfully at the picture, he ran a hand through his hair. _"I miss you mama."_

Sighing once more, he made his way over to the connecting room, slipping out of his shirt and jeans and into a frayed pair of flannel pants, throwing the discarded clothes into the dilapidated basket before grabbing his toothbrush, running toothpaste over it a stuffing it into his mouth. Continuing for the routine two minutes, today's sundry events skittered through his mind, replaying as they always do. The two minutes finished as did the fast splash of water over his face.

He flicked off the lights to his apartment and made his way over to his bed and under the covers.

_"Good night mama."_

And René was finally home.

—

The next morning René's bicycle was nowhere to be seen.

Instead a conspicuous limo waited outside the building for him.

* * *

**Word count: **2,902.

**A/N: **Hope you enjoyed it! I tried to embody the René before the Tamaki. And I'm really aiming for another chapter soon [spoiler: Kyoya's 'still'!], though I can almost guarantee that it's not going to be anywhere near as long, though now that I think about it, two thousand words really isn't that much, but meh, I just had a lot on my mind for this one.

**Song to listen to: **'Her Radiant Limb' - Mother Falcon (and any of their songs for that matter; for the best listening quality, you can hear it on their Facebook page. They're amazing! Go listen!)


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